Katharina
The restaurant is perfect, of course. Rustic wooden beams, warm candlelight, old ski posters framed between shelves of dusty bottles. It smells like sage and butter and expensive intentions.
Matteo is sitting across from me; dark sweater, collar open just enough to seem casual, grinning.
We talk. Or rather, he does.
About the downhill that morning. How the snow held well through the Minschkante, how his line through the Kerner-S was almost perfect. He mimics the section with his hands, fork dangling between two fingers. I nod. Smile. Sip my wine.
I laugh at the right moments. Say the right things. Even toss in a clever remark about the standings.
But I'm not really here.
Some part of me is watching us from above; two beautiful people having a beautiful dinner, the kind people photograph for sponsor reels. His eyes shine. His hands are expressive in a typical Italian way. His charm is real. Polished like his trophies. And hollow in a way I can't quite name.
When he pours me more wine, his fingers brush mine. Lightly. Deliberately.
I search for the shiver that should be running up my spine.
The heat between my legs that Thomas could evoke the moment our hands got close enough, barely touching.
I smile, feeling a little guilty when I realize that I don't feel anything.
But Matteo does not notice. Maybe he is so used to women melting into wet puddles of desire that he does not care about subtle signals. Does not wait for a response, for lust in the woman's eyes, he anticipates it. Does not doubt it.
And he is talking again. About his skis. His new boots. His take on the Italian federation's approach to sponsorship deals. I respond. I nod. But I can't stop comparing.
He brushes my hand; confident, careful. It should spark. It doesn't. He notices, I think, and pivots to work talk instead of pressing. Gentleman. Strategist. Both.
All I feel is loss. Last time I sat like this, last time I was touched like this, I was shifting my weight on a chair just to ease the ache below.
Because it was not Matteo touching me.
A brush of knees under a table with Thomas would short-circuit my whole body. This? This is... warm. Polite.
Safe.
Matteo leans in, lowers his voice. "You want to get out of here? Maybe grab something at the bar next to your place?"
His eyes are honest. Open.
He is confident, but not arrogant.
Seductive, but not pushy.
And I feel terrible. He is a self-centered macho, but a perfect gentleman at the same time. Refusing him would have been easier if he had turned out to be a jerk.
Suddenly, I realize the real reason I′m sitting here with him.
Just to prove something to someone who isn't even here.
What a despicable person I am.
"You know what?" I say, my voice softer than I intended. "I think I'm calling it a night."
He blinks once. Pauses. Then recovers fast.
"Of course. Another time, maybe."
He stands and helps me into my coat. Kisses my cheek.
He watches me for a beat. A little confused. Unsure why the spark didn't land.
I thank him. Force one last smile. Then turn away the moment I'm out of sight.
I walk fast. Head down.
Wanting to get behind a corner as fast as possible.
I don't know what stings more, that I wanted to feel something tonight. Or that I didn't.
Leaving the restaurant was supposed to be a graceful exit. Disappearing like a woman who had better things to do. Clean. Dignified.
Instead, I stepped outside the pub into a blizzard.
Actual, honest-to-God, horizontal-snow, slap-you-in-the-face blizzard.
Fine, I thought. It's Switzerland, not Kamchatka. There are taxis. There are always taxis.
There were no taxis.
Not one.
The app spun and spun like it was loading the entire history of mankind. Then it glitched. Then it died.
No problem. I still had… 4% battery.
I messaged Maddie: Worst date of my life. Matteo talked about his skis like they were his children.
And then my phone died too.
I stood there for a moment, on a cobbled Wengen street, wearing a silk blouse, tights, and boots that were fashion boots, not weather boots. A strong wind tried to undress me. Somewhere, a snowplow laughed. Too far up the slope to bother saving the damsel.
I could almost hear my own voice narrating it in post: She wanted to feel powerful. She got frostbite instead.
I would rather freeze than return to the pub and ask Matteo for help.
So I walk.
Shoes soaked, tights wet at the knees, slipping every third step. The snow had turned to that half-melted salty slush that soaks through soles like it has a personal grudge. My skirt rode up with every gust of wind, like it, too, had abandoned all decency.
At one point, I muttered, "You deserve this," out loud.
Not for the date. For believing I could replace true fire with shallow flattery.
Halfway through, I passed a small gas station. They might call me a taxi!
But it was a self-service 24/7 kind of gas station.
So, I pulled out my credit card, bought a bottle of overpriced water, and stood under the tiny roof, staring at my reflection in the dark window like it might offer life advice.
It didn't. It offered pity.
My eyeliner had surrendered. My hair was a tragic novella of wind, snow, and static electricity. My blouse clung to me like I'd been caught in an avalanche-themed wet t-shirt contest.
I limped into the hotel just after midnight, frozen and furious.
The lobby was quiet. Lights dimmed. Even the fireplace had given up for the night. The concierge had abandoned his post, and the only sound was the gentle tick-tick of that stupid retro clock over the hearth.
But still. I paused. Just a second. Just long enough to notice the couch.
Someone had been there.
There was a cup of tea on the low table. Still warm. No steam anymore, but not cold either. The kind of warmth that meant minutes, not hours.
I couldn't resist. My feet were blocks of ice, my shoulders soaked through, and I was starting to lose feeling in one earlobe.
I sat down and wrapped both hands around the cup like a pilgrim who'd reached salvation.
I felt vaguely criminal for drinking someone's unfinished tea. But the kitchen was closed, my pride was wrinkled and frozen, and I needed warmth more than I needed dignity.
So I drank it.
Quietly. Slowly.
Then I walked the stairs, too cold to wait for the elevator.
I fumble with the keycard three times before it gives in like a sulky child. The door swings open to darkness and that faint hotel smell: linens, minibar plastic, and defeat.
I throw my clutch somewhere near the armchair. Jacket follows, landing in a heap like it's exhausted too. My heels get kicked off with a sigh that feels disproportionate until I realize I've been clenching my toes for the last hour like they were trying to crawl out of my boots.
The bottle of wine from one of the sponsors, the one I didn't open before the date, is still on the dresser, mocking me. I pour a generous glass without even checking the label, let the deep red swirl like blood.
Then I stop.
I stare at my reflection in the window. Night-blank outside, just the ghost of a woman in a damp blouse with tangled hair and too many thoughts.
Somewhere between the half-hearted glam and half-frozen walk, I lost the thread of who I was trying to be tonight.
I pick up my tablet from the nightstand, swipe it awake with a finger that still feels stiff. Notifications blink. Battery low.
You too, little guy?
One message glows, pinned at the top.
Thomas, from a few days ago:
"You're unlike any other girl."
My stomach clenches. Tight and low and tired.
I whisper it before I can stop myself: "Then why did you treat me like one?"
No one answers, of course.
I take a sip of wine. It's dry. Bitter. Like being right.
Then I crawl onto the bed, pull the blanket around my shoulders like armor—or surrender, I'm not sure which—and sit there on the edge, legs dangling, glass cradled between my hands.
I don't know if I want to cry.
Or scream.
Or sleep.
I just know I don't want to feel this anymore.
***
Thomas
The fluorescent lights in the conference room are already giving me a headache, and I've only been inside for twelve seconds.
I'm late. Not dramatically, not offensively. Just enough to make a point I wasn't trying to make.
Half the team's already here; delegates in button-downs and vests, staff clutching folders, Niko spinning a pen between his fingers like it's a ski pole.
Why does he have a pen anyway? He never takes notes. None of us does.
Lukas sits back with arms crossed, clearly regretting every life choice that led him to this 8:30 A.M. meeting.
And then there's her.
Katharina.
Standing at the head of the table, remote in one hand, coffee in the other. Her second, if the empty cup beside her laptop is hers.
She looks tired.
And all I can think about is him.
Matteo
Him making her stay awake until sunrise.
Him keeping her busy so that she cannot watch the sunrise.
Like I did.
Matteo, sliding his hand down her back as she laughs into her wine glass, her coat falling open just enough to show the cleavage between her perfect breasts.
And then she sees me.
Just a glance. Blank. Tired. But she doesn't pause.
"Let's get started," she says, clicking to the next slide. Her voice is even, but her jaw's tight. "We'll run through the image brief for the next race block, then cover sponsor content planning. If Thomas would like to join us finally—"
"I'm here, aren't I?" I say, too loud, already regretting it.
She doesn't even look at me. "Lovely. Then maybe we'll get through this before the next media cycle begins."
Niko snorts under his breath. Lukas groans.
I pull out a chair. Harder than I need to. Sit. Arms crossed.
She continues, but the air between us is already buzzing.
And I can't stop looking at her.
The second espresso. The tiny detail that screams that she spent her night not sleeping.
She clicks again. Talks through the visuals. Something about branded hashtags and a car sponsor. I hear none of it.
I just see the night she had. In my head, it plays like a movie I wish I could stop watching—Matteo's hand brushing hers, the smile she saves for when she's half-drunk and free, her blouse sliding off one shoulder, and he kissing her sensitive spot under the collarbone.
I grip the armrest like it might break.
And then I say something stupid.
"Is it fair to tell us to behave?" I call out.
Her eyes flick to mine, sharp as ski edges. "Excuse me?"
"And party all night with our competition?" I continue relentlessly.
The air goes still.
I know I sound silly.
A silly, jealous idiot, and the whole room sees it. They all see our not-so-much-lovers quarrel and feel embarrassed to witness it.
Let them. If she didn't want to be seen as that girl, maybe she shouldn't act like one.
But to my disappointment, she does not take the bait.
Does not shout at me across the room, making our brawl public.
She sets the clicker down. Takes a long sip of her coffee. Then, still staring straight at me:
"Well," she says calmly, "we'll all take a short break until our superstar gets his priorities straight."
The table falls into awkward shuffles and squeaks as people rise, pretend to check phones, and escape toward the coffee station.
She doesn't wait. She heads toward the hallway and signals for me to follow her.
I could remain in my chair.
But they are all eying me. It turns embarrassing. They know they are waiting for us to sort it out.
The smartass witch, this is what she wanted.
So, I get up and follow her like a dog that chewed the couch.
I catch up with her near the coat rack.
She turns before I speak. "You're jealous."
It's not a question.
I open my mouth.
She raises a hand. "Don't."
I shut it.
She leans against the wall, arms crossed, voice low. "It's cute. Also unfair. And not your business. But sure—cute."
"I wasn't—" I start.
She arches a brow. Don't lie to me.
I shift. My shoulder blades itch. "I just—"
"You don't get to be angry about what I do when you're the one who walked off that night with a smug little joke about crazy fans." Her voice is still soft. Controlled. Like she's rationing energy.
"I wasn't—God, I didn't mean—" I sigh. I'm not good at this part. Never have been.
She rubs her temple. "Look, I'm on my second espresso and three hours of sleep," she says. "And I'm too tired to fight with you about a night I didn't even enjoy."
I blink. "You didn't—?"
She looks up at me then, and for the first time this morning, I see her. Really see her.
There's no heat in her eyes. No spark. Just quiet.
Tired.
"No," she says, almost like a confession. "It wasn't that kind of night."
I nod. Don't smile. Don't react. Just nod. But feel warmth spreading around my chest.
"If you need to know," she smirks. "My clothes are in my room, soaking wet. Not from any kind of pleasant activity, but because my phone went dead and there are no fucking taxis in Wengen, obviously."
She pushes past me gently, back toward the room. "I still have a briefing to finish."
I stay there a beat longer.
By the time I get back in, she's flipping through slides again, as if she hadn't just yanked the floor out from under me.
She's still impossible.
But she's not Matteo's. Not today. And that's enough to carry me through the rest of the meeting with a barely-there smile.